


être fleur bleue

by tokyonightskies



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Drabble Collection, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Gen, Infiltration, Memory Related, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutually Unrequited, Partners to Lovers, Partnership, Post-Infiltration, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Regret, Sex, Smut, Tentacle Sex, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Emotional Tension, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:09:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8478256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: drabble i: la mort qui console et qui fait vivredrabble ii: singing, sinking handsdrabble iii: le gosier d'un homme usé par ses travauxdrabble iv: des caresses de serpent autour d’une fosse rampantdrabble v: sous les ifs noirs qui les abritent, les hiboux se tiennent rangésdrabble vi: symbiosisdrabble vii: five times gabriel spoke to amélie, and one time she replied.





	1. la mort qui console et qui fait vivre

**Author's Note:**

> drabble i: la mort qui console et qui fait vivre  
> Widowmaker lands in a crouch on the ground, steadies herself with one gloved palm pressed to the concrete while balancing her retracted rifle on her lap. She doesn’t need to cast a glance over her shoulder to know Reaper’s strutting in her direction, the staccato thuds of his heavy boots are enough of a warning in itself, but there’s the soft sound of his coattails whipping around in the wind too. He comes to a halt, staring down at her curved figure.
> 
> “We have to move,” he grumbles, the deep rumble of his voice cutting through the air.
> 
> His hand curls over her shoulder; the sharp of his claws are poised to prick the material of her bodysuit, but she can’t resist to caress the skin of her cheek over the metal, to breathe in the faint scent of electrocution. He smells like she imagines a mercy seat would, of wires being short-circuited, burned through.

.

Widowmaker lands in a crouch on the ground, steadies herself with one gloved palm pressed to the concrete while balancing her retracted rifle on her lap. She doesn’t need to cast a glance over her shoulder to know Reaper’s strutting in her direction, the staccato thuds of his heavy boots are enough of a warning in itself, but there’s the soft sound of his coattails whipping around in the wind too. He comes to a halt, staring down at her curved figure.

“We have to move,” he grumbles, the deep rumble of his voice cutting through the air.

His hand curls over her shoulder; the sharp of his claws are poised to prick the material of her bodysuit, but she can’t resist to caress the skin of her cheek over the metal, to breathe in the faint scent of electrocution. He smells like she imagines a mercy seat would, of wires being short-circuited, burned through.

“You smell like hell,” she remarks casually as she allows him to slide his palm down the expanse of her arm, the leather of his gauntlets coarse and warm on her bare skin.

There’s the soft chink of his metallic claws looping around her slender wrist. Reaper scoffs in derision before he pulls her to her two feet. She grounds the body of the Widow’s Kiss against her chest with one arm, glancing at him from the corner of her peripheral. Snow eddies around them, gets stuck in her long ponytail and the folds of his cloak.

He leans in, close enough so the flat owlish nose of his mask _thunks_ against the side of her helmet, as he twines his claws with her fingers, and growls into her ear, “Compliment me later.”

Her lips furl into a small, indulging smile at his remark. Reaper tugs on her hand and they’re off. Their footsteps are a stampede on the concrete, kicking up snow as they sprint. She aims her grappling hook for the building they came out of up high while he transmutes into thick, tar-black shadows that ghost around her body.

Reaper’s arm is solid around her waist when they’re catapulted upwards and sent flying through the crisp winter air, but the outline of his legs, of his coat are still blurry. She absentmindedly listens to Sombra’s status update through her com as her boots touch the ground. Next to her, Reaper seems to grumble an acknowledgement from behind his mask.

He doesn’t remove his arm immediately, opting to keep her there by his side until she’s adjusted her grip on her weapon, with one hand on the underbelly of the weapon and the other holding onto the stock. His claws thrum impatiently on her hipbone before the touch disappears completely.

Widowmaker activates the infra-red visors in her helmet to scan the hallway for guards, but aside from the dying heat signature of the body Reaper left behind on the bottom of the stairwell, the building’s empty. They must’ve concentrated their troops in the immediate perimeter of the large hangar of the R&D department.

“You think Volskaya will learn from this, _mon chèr_?” Her voice echoes onwards in the cold metallic corridor with its harsh fluorescent lighting, chased out by their louder footfalls.

He huffs, a curt and disbelieving sound, and responds gruffly, “If she doesn’t, she’s not nearly as smart as people make her out to be.”

“Here’s to hoping, then,” She comments wryly, deciding to tell him what she’s seen transpire in Volskaya’s office through her helmet, but after Talon’s debriefed them.

Some things are best kept in the dark and she doesn’t know of any darker place than death’s embrace.

.


	2. singing, sinking hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Status report, commander,” the operative states curtly, his voice transfigured by the modulator inside the helmet.
> 
> He turns around, cloak billowing around his calves as he moves away from the dead team of security guards. His skull-like mask and the metallic accents on his gauntlets, shin guards, belts and cartridge straps stand out so much the rest of his uniform seems to fade away in the darkness. With a pithy clack, the operative clicks his heels together to stand straighter. Reaper tilts his head in amusement at the display and motions with his hand that he can continue.
> 
> “Widowmaker clocked in at checkpoint two, at zero five hundred thirty five. Estimated arrival within two minutes. Mock target’s currently being escorted away. Strike-team Epsilon requesting permission for chase.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before the Infiltration short came out.

Reaper drops his two short-barreled shotguns for the last time this night, looking off at the security guard slumped against the wall as his weapons disappear into shadows upon collision with the ground. His eyes are glassy and dry, the bulletproof vest he’s wearing above his uniform riddled with holes and its shoulder pads stained a gleaming red, and his hair’s bloody, wet and flat against his blown-apart forehead.

The shuffle of footsteps prompts him to cast a glance over his shoulder at one of the operatives Talon assigned to his squad for this mission, approaching him. In the dark of night, the glow of the red visors in their helmets seems to stretch onwards in the air.

“Status report, commander,” the operative states curtly, his voice transfigured by the modulator inside the helmet.

He turns around, cloak billowing around his calves as he moves away from the dead team of security guards. His skull-like mask and the metallic accents on his gauntlets, shin guards, belts and cartridge straps stand out so much the rest of his uniform seems to fade away in the darkness. With a pithy clack, the operative clicks his heels together to stand straighter. Reaper tilts his head in amusement at the display and motions with his hand that he can continue.

“Widowmaker clocked in at checkpoint two, at zero five hundred thirty five. Estimated arrival within two minutes. Mock target’s currently being escorted away. Strike-team Epsilon requesting permission for chase.”

In this mission, an attempt on Katya Volskaya’s life wasn’t more than a simple smokescreen to get to the actual objective: the software programs of the Svyatogor walkers. While a chase might add credibility to the assassination plot, Talon wouldn’t want more OMON involvement than there normally should be. His gaze flits from the operative’s chest plate to the flakes of snow eddying to the ground under the bright fluorescent light of the security lights attached to this side of the building, and then back to the red visors of the operative’s helmet.

“Granted, relay order to give chase for five minutes. Tops. Then reroute. We got what we came for,” he says and dismisses him before crossing his arms over his chest.

There’s a soft, hissing sound that cuts through the crisp night air, followed by the dull clank the grappling hook makes when the talons embed themselves into brick. Widowmaker comes flying in, gracefully lands on the ground, with powdery snow soaring upwards from the impact, and remains standing upright in a pose that reminds him of the gymnastic athletes he used to watch on TV during the Olympics.

“Mission status complete,” she states matter-of-factly as her helmet clicks open and reveals the entirety of her face, a puff of breath floating off into the air.

Her bodysuit hasn’t been adapted to the weather in Moscow, but Reaper isn’t sure whether the cold has any influence on her. Her skin has the appearance of a permanent frostbite, unthawed and sickly, dead.

At the start of this mission, Widowmaker made it clear to him that she would only obey his command because her superiors gave her the order to do so. He begrudgingly had to admit to himself that his ego took a blow since the other operatives had this fearsome respect for him. Fear’s better than hate, his machiavellian mind had whispered, and love’s better than fear, but this indifference towards him, and more importantly towards his abilities, irks him for some reason.

She gazes at him expectantly, but simultaneously there’s something mocking about her gaze, about those large, unnaturally bright eyes of hers. He huffs and walks past her, brushing his arm against hers to get her to follow him. The reaction he gets surprises him because instead of flinching away from the touch, she seems to lean into him, instinctively.

So there was a flaw in Talon’s design after all; _the hunger for human touch._

“What are you doing?” Suspicion’s evident in her voice when he grabs her by the underarm, the pinpoints of his claws a tease on her bare skin, but the inside of his palm big and warm.

Reaper gives a short but strong tug that makes her grit her teeth, and his mask helps keep the satisfaction out of his voice when he replies, “We’re moving out.”

He pretends not to notice how she vigorously starts to rub the spot where he touched her, staring at him with half-lidded eyes for a split-second before clicking her helmet back shut over her face. The red gleam of each of the visors melting together in one reddish fog. He smirks and files the information away for future reference.


	3. le gosier d’un homme usé par ses travaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scene in front of her proves that the whole is more than the sum of its parts. Her gaze flits from the blotchy mass of thick, tar black tendrils swarming out from the spot where Reaper’s standing in the dead end of the alleyway to the corpse on the ground. There’s no comparing the damage of her Widow’s Kiss to his Hellfires. Whereas the 6.8mm caliber of her rifle would’ve left most of the man’s head intact, the buckshot of his shotguns pulverized the cranium, leaving behind a concave of gore and bone.
> 
> Under the flickering fluorescent light above the back entrance of the building, his smoky shadows seem to switch between translucent and viscose as they descend onto the dead body. She feels the weight of his multi-eyed gaze on her shoulders and skittishly shuffles around to bear the brunt of it.
> 
> “You should’ve told me you were this hungry, mon chèr,” she whispers into the cold night air, the words eclipsed by a puff of breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by kabrox18 whose widowreaper anthology you should definitely check out if you haven't already.
> 
> ambiguous relationship and a reaper who's more monster than man.

The scene in front of her proves that the whole is more than the sum of its parts. Her gaze flits from the blotchy mass of thick, tar black tendrils swarming out from the spot where Reaper’s standing in the dead end of the alleyway to the corpse on the ground. There’s no comparing the damage of her Widow’s Kiss to his Hellfires. Whereas the 6.8mm caliber of her rifle would’ve left most of the man’s head intact, the buckshot of his shotguns pulverized the cranium, leaving behind a concave of gore and bone.

Under the flickering fluorescent light above the back entrance of the building, his smoky shadows seem to switch between translucent and viscose as they descend onto the dead body. She feels the weight of his multi-eyed gaze on her shoulders and skittishly shuffles around to bear the brunt of it.

“You should’ve told me you were this hungry, _mon chèr_ ,” she whispers into the cold night air, the words eclipsed by a puff of breath.

He moves forwards; the outline of his body blurred, broken apart by the darkness and the harsh, heavy lighting of the fluorescent tube. Aside from his mask, the two metal bolts in the high forehead gleaming once silver, once dark gray, everything about him is concealed. He tilts his head owlishly as he raises one hand to palm his mask, with shadows spilling from the length of his forearm and dispelling into the air.

“And have you do _what_?” Reaper spits out the last word in a menacing growl as he reveals his face to her.

Widowmaker’s seen him in this state before; it looks as if someone’s started to peel away the sallow skin from his forehead, from his jaw and his chin and the gaunt of his cheeks. His mouth’s a mismatch of gum, bone, teeth and tongue. There’s a glitch in his system, making the microscopic machines that constitute his body project red-dyed eyes atop and underneath his actual ones. What was once a scar stretched over the bridge of his nose seems to dreg onwards in the mass of shadows pulling at the bone structure of his face.

She isn’t disturbed by the sight anymore.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he snarls, showing off his razor-sharp teeth, and then drops his mask to the ground with a hollow _thud._

It’s not hunger, not in the traditional sense, but his body needs organic material to function and Widowmaker supposes the verb _to feed_ is applicable to describe why he ghosts over the corpse in this way, why he picks apart and processes the fabric of the trousers, of the skin, of the muscle and the bone and the marrow underneath. The fluorescent tube flickers again and in summer, the light must be swarmed by mosquitoes.

_C’est étrange_ , she muses as she crosses her arms and leans against the brick wall, _alors pourquoi avez-vous de grandes dents_?

“Do you not miss it? Taste?” She prompts, aware that this one body won’t nearly be enough to recuperate from the damage done by his self-imposed period of abstinence.

Reaper solidifies his upper body, redefines the rigid lines of his shoulders and the musculature of his strong arms. His tone’s scathing when he answers, “What does it matter if I do?”

“But can you still?” There’s a note of genuine curiosity in her voice.

She drums her fingers against her elbow, thinking that he looks more a spider than she does, thinking _a spider cannibalizes its mate_ and _que avez-vous de grandes dents, c’est pour me manger, non?_

Widowmaker exhales through her nose as he quirks one misshapen brow and seems to consider what she’s asking of him. There’s a sting of something deep down her belly when thick tendrils of murky smoke amass around her waist, as if dozens of hands are holding onto her hips, legs and ankles. She proffers him a gioconda smile, trying to ignore this familiar feeling of the hunt unfurl and pool inside her stomach.

His face is in front of her again, framed in silver by the harsh fluorescent lighting. She watches his maw attentively when he pronounces what he wants to say, “And what would warrant me using this mouth?”

She can feel his hot breath waft over her, regards him with heavy-lidded eyes, and murmurs her response, “ _Dites-moi_.”

Reaper growls menacingly and bares his sharp teeth to her; his multiple red eyes glow brighter in the absence of light and his shadows become a palpable weight on the curve of her hips. She uncrosses her arms and brings her hands to cover them, smoothens them into gauntleted hands. His threat falls flat in the narrow space between them, and her smile widens, matches the excitement she feels in the hollow of her chest.

“ _Montre-moi_.”

The rough chafe of his sandpaper tongue bruises her cold lips. Widowmaker stares at him wide-eyed, ignoring how one lick left her mouth _raw_. More shadows coil around her as if they’re trying to find a home inside of her. There’s no fear, but the thought of him drawing her airtight with his shadows and abrasive tongue makes a trickle of anticipation to run down her spine. He pushes her flush against the brick wall.

How difficult would it be for him to push his shadows under the tight fabric of her bodysuit and ghost over her bare skin, she wonders, staring at his fucked-up face and how it seems to escape from the confines of his hood.

“Did this answer your question, Widow?” He asks unamused, beginning to turn away from her, back towards the remains of the corpse he still needs to process, to pick clean like a vulture.

She blinks slowly and holds onto his wrists, leaning in to press a kiss to the exposed bone of his jaw. Some of his eyes angle towards her, floating in an expanse of darkness, dislocated from the structure of his face. Her chapped lips hurt from the light pressure, but it’s a pain she delights in.

“It’ll do for now, _mon chèri_ ,” she teases softly, smirking.

“ _Bon appetit._ ”


	4. des caresses de serpent autour d’une fosse rampant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes memories of Gérard hit her like a lightning strike; the way he used to smile at her from above the brim of his morning coffee; the twining of their fingers when they held hands ice skating on the open-air rink during Christmas on place François de Menthon; or how he always had his eyes closed already before his mouth touched hers in a kiss. 
> 
> These thoughts leave a lichtenberg scarring on her usual behavior, visible in how the tension pulls her muscles taut, or leaves her breathing haggardly with her nostrils flared, or makes her stare absentmindedly and wide-eyed at one point in space. 
> 
> She becomes detached from the person Talon made of the bones, nerves and tissue of another, only to reconnect with those very same roots of the person she once was. Bare and uprooted. But briefly, as if the memories are nothing but pin-pricks of light through a thick fog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon-compliant, sort of ambiguous relationship between widowmaker and reaper (as in: it's up to your interpretation if they are or are not). also me not being able to do both paris and berlin justice.

_._

Sometimes memories of Gérard hit her like a lightning strike; the way he used to smile at her from above the brim of his morning coffee; the twining of their fingers when they held hands ice skating on the open-air rink during Christmas on place François de Menthon; or how he always had his eyes closed already before his mouth touched hers in a kiss.

These thoughts leave a lichtenberg scarring on her usual behavior, visible in how the tension pulls her muscles taut, or leaves her breathing haggardly with her nostrils flared, or makes her stare absentmindedly and wide-eyed at one point in space.

She becomes detached from the person Talon made of the bones, nerves and tissue of another, only to reconnect with those very same roots of the person she once was. Bare and uprooted. But _briefly_ , as if the memories are nothing but pin-pricks of light through a thick fog.

Widowmaker pops the collar of her overcoat in a reflex when a few people hurriedly cross the Lustgarten from the wide steps of the Altes Museum to the street corner. The night is falling over the city of Berlin, with the sky gradually darkening until the last flashes of pink, orange and red are on the far horizon, and the street lanterns and the buildings along the Karl-Liebknecht-Stra _ße are slowly being lit._

_“They aren’t paying attention to you,” Reaper grumbles softly, trudging along on her walk._

She casts a glance over her shoulder at him; he’s drawn the hood of the hoodie he’s wearing under his jacket up over his head and stuffed his large hands into his pockets, concealing most of his scarred skin to any bystanders. If one were to try and scrutinize his face, they’d have to get into his personal space, and with his bulky frame and stand-offish behavior, Reaper doesn’t seem the kind of person anyone would want to get too close with.

So she only shrugs at his comment and looks back at the fountain in the center of the square. It’s styled as a geyser spouting the water upwards from a flat basin and isn’t as imposing as the statues decorating the stairs, the Grecian pillars and the granite bowl in front of the museum. But there’s something about the fountain that’s hooked her attention.

It strikes her then, the memory, like it only needed the sound of the water hitting the stones to be triggered. Gérard proposed to her on the place de la Concorde on their weekend trip to Paris, in front of one of the fountains. She blinks owlishly and furrows her brows, tries to ignore the way her lower lip starts to tremble lightly.

_They were walking past the Fontaine des Fleuves when Gérard asked her to stop for a moment. She’d squeezed his hand and smiled, thinking he wanted to get a selfie with the fountain and the obelisk in the background. It was the last day of their vacation, 25 th of March, and the evening before it’d started raining so heavily, the many lights of la Ville Lumière were drowned out in little blurs and the promenades were still wet the following morning. There was a nip in the air so she’d put on her favorite woolen scarf and buried her nose in it the whole walk._

_“Amélie, ma belle,” he’d said gently as he guided her to the edge of the fountain, holding onto both of her hands now._

_His face was earnest in its expressiveness: the smile tugging on the corners of his mouth so nervous it becomes endearing, the wet glimmer in his sharp eyes, and the involuntary wrinkle of his nose. She raised an eyebrow in wonder, skirting the line between wonder and confusion. Some people scurried past them, while others stood still to snap pictures of the square, the fountains, the obelisk and the buildings. Gérard got down on one knee and she thought she was going to cry._

_“J’ai quelque chose à te demander...”_ _He chuckles nervously when he notices how her breathing switches up and lets go of her right hand to grope around in the pocket of his tweed jacket. “S’il te plaît, pleure pas, pleure pas.”_

_There’s too much noise around her: the sound of the water falling, the excited murmuring of the tourists, the Parisian traffic, … While all she wants to hear is Gérard’s voice, the soft and husky quality of his nervous laughter, and the steady lull of his breathing in between the words and peals of laughter. Tears roll down her cheeks when he finally manages to pop open the lid of the black ring box. She’s already forming the oui with her mouth, silently._

_“Tu veux m’éspouser, ma chèrie?”_

Someone’s shaking her and it feels as if the world’s shaken apart, but it’s only yesteryear’s world, a dead one. She whips her head around to look, but her vision’s blurred and her face hurts, as if someone’s pulling her skin past the structure of her head. Her mouth’s wet, but with what she doesn’t know.

“Widow?” Her gaze’s unfocused, eyes nervously flitting from one corner to the other. Reaper repeats himself in a hiss, “Widow?”

She comes down to herself, to the streets of Berlin at nightfall. The water of the fountain’s nothing more than a white noise in the distance. Her breathing’s irregular, quick-paced, on the verge of hyperventilation. His hands are two anchors, holding her stranded in the here and now. Widowmaker tries to focus on the face hidden in the darkness of the hood.

“Amélie?” He asks then unsurely, a hush for a husk of a name. “Your nose’s bleeding.”

With the plush pads of his thumbs, he gingerly wipes the smear of blood between the button of her nose and the cupid’s bow of her upper lip open. There’s too much gentleness in his movements, as if he’s trying to comfort a wounded animal. Widowmaker makes two fists against his chest, watching his stoic face for a twitch of expression, but her gaze gets caught on the pale color of his scars, on the fire in his eyes.

“Ce qui est rigolo, c’est que je sais pas pourquoi j’avais pensé pour un instant que tu me vas offrir un mouchoir,” she murmurs calmly, but still sensitive to the warm touch of his thumb along the corner of her mouth.

Reaper puts his hands back on her shoulders, scolding, “In English.”

“You don’t have a handkerchief for me?” It’s meant in jest, but the shaky quality of her voice curtails any humorous effect.

“What happened?” There’s a curt, almost hesitant pause. “Widowmaker?”

She looks off to the side, to the edge of the curb. Behind her, the Berliner Dom looks beautiful, lit up with spotlights, but he keeps his eyes trained on her. Her mouth still has faint swipes of blood around the corners, but her nose seems to have stopped running. He feels the heave of her chest when she takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I remember Gérard proposing to me… _Non,_ to Amélie,” she corrects herself, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “It was too, _qu’est-ce qu’on peut dire_ , too vivid for a moment. That is all. It will not affect my performance.” She sounds so sure, so sure that her attempt to convince him is one to convince herself.

_Bullshit_ , Reaper wants to retort, _you’re not okay_. But when she bares her face to him openly in the halo of light from the street lantern, he keeps quiet. He lets go of her and takes a step back, giving her the distance she seems to need.

“Keep your head in the game.”

With a nod, Widowmaker starts to walk onwards, in the direction of the Zeughaus. He doesn’t fall into step immediately, instead he opts to regard the back of her head for a few seconds—her long ponytail swaying with her movements, the cinched waistline of the coat that accentuates her figure, the suede knee-high boots she’s wearing.

He absentmindedly brings his thumb to his botched mouth, thinking back at that time she had watched him feed off a corpse in an abandoned alleyway. How she’d challenged him with her bright eyes, as if he had anything to prove to her. Reaper’s still watching her attentively as he swipes his tongue along the side of his thumb.

It’s only when she pauses in front of the bridge and casts an expectant glance over her shoulder at him, that he moves.

_Best to keep an eye on her_ , he vows quietly, _to make sure nothing happens._ It’s been some time since this instinct to protect, reared its head in his direction after all.

.


	5. sous les ifs noirs qui les abritent, les hiboux se tiennent rangés

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another shot hit him right in the gut. He groaned in response, bringing his palm to the wound. Two more operatives were lying dead or dying on the ground around him. Bile bubbled up to the roof of his mouth as his body struggled to regenerate and came up short.
> 
> Repressive gunfire prevented him from feeding on the corpses of the Talon operatives, forcing him to return to the outskirts of the clearing. Reaper emptied his shotguns and threw them away apart, but waves of dizziness tampered with his sight, with his consciousness as a hole, and he dissolved into a mass of shadows on his way to the woods.
> 
> Adrenalin pushed him over the edge; out of touch with the physicality of being save for his sense of self-preservation. Run. He was retreating to Widowmaker’s position up high in the crown of the tree on top of the stone outcropping. Hide. He had to reach her, associated the scope of her rifle with safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pre-widowreaper, can be read as gen; basically a word vomit.

.

This was supposed to be an easy mission: disrupt the main ROC army supply lines in the mountains and implicate the omnic community.

Reaper’s dispatched to back up strike-team Delta while Widowmaker’s made her sniper’s nest up high on a stone outcropping to give them cover. It’s a sweltering summer night and the dark sky’s dotted with dove-colored clouds. The light breeze brought the smell of the sea from Tamsui bay to the mountains.

If his body was still a semblance to that of a human being, he might’ve been sweating underneath his heavy leathers. But as it stands now, he’s relatively unbothered by the humidity and the heat.

They moved through the thick foliage of scrubs and bushes, and in between the stems of trees, trample twigs underneath their boots and push low-hanging branches out of their way. Hunger clawed desperately at the back of his throat, a desperate need that splices his cells apart into particles of smoke.

His own sheer power of will and the potent promise of destruction were the only things that were holding him together behind his owl-faced mask.

The supply camp is surrounded by various artillery installations that are covered in camouflage nets, armored vehicles and trucks are lined up in a clearing with large crates ready to be loaded in, and the lights of the barracks—made from cheap, plastic plates where the rains would loudly pelt onto during monsoon season, are shut off save for one glaring spotlight at the front. In the halo of light, the shadows of the canopy above sway on the ground.

Reaper instructed two operatives to circle around and tamper with the radar electronic countermeasure systems on board of the three AFV’s, while he and the remaining four operatives were going to enter the barracks, take out the guards stationed there and strip the place of its logistics equipment.

But it was too quiet; he could hear the soft creaking of the other operatives’ leather uniforms, the shuffle of dirt under their boots, the thud-thud-thud of the weapons in their holsters. He could hear these sounds contrasted against the cicadas’ song from in between the leaves, and it made him grind his teeth together, set his jaw and clench his fists.

There was a deafening explosion, then another one and another one; something clanks hollowly when it’s thrown onto the ground. Columns of smoke rise from the canisters, pricked through by moving beams from flashlights.

A growl slipped past his lips, feral, frustrated.

Successive gunshots rang through the air, followed by loud shouting in heavily-accented English; the Talon operative to his right staggered backwards when bullets lodged themselves into his throat and breastplate, dead when another magazine got emptied into his body and the cheap plated wall behind him.

_Someone made them walk straight into an ambush_.

Reaper knew this position was indefensible; there was no cover and they were outnumbered. He had wanted to dissolve into shadows and try to get the drop of their attackers from the flanks, but a wash of static rang hollow between his own two ears when a bullet went straight through the joint of his elbow.

His underfed body short-circuited for a split-second, sending the millions of particles constituting the framework of bone, muscle, tissue and nerve into all possible directions. Breath escaped him, jaw left open, unhinged. Then he came back to himself, trying to reconnect, correct the damage done to his elbow, with ferro-fluid blood dripping from the wound.

Another shot hit him right in the gut. He groaned in response, bringing his palm to the wound. Two more operatives were lying dead or dying on the ground around him. Bile bubbled up to the roof of his mouth as his body struggled to regenerate and came up _short_.

Repressive gunfire prevented him from feeding on the corpses of the Talon operatives, forcing him to return to the outskirts of the clearing. Reaper emptied his shotguns and threw them away apart, but waves of dizziness tampered with his sight, with his consciousness as a hole, and he dissolved into a mass of shadows on his way to the woods.

Adrenalin pushed him over the edge; out of touch with the physicality of _being_ save for his sense of self-preservation. _Run._ He was retreating to Widowmaker’s position up high in the crown of the tree on top of the stone outcropping. _Hide._ He had to reach her, associated the scope of her rifle with safety.

Shadowy tendrils slipping through the high grass, the thick foliage of the scrubs and the low-hanging branches. A stampede of footsteps followed him through the forest, uphill.

One 6.8mm bullet sliced through his wraith form, hitting its mark somewhere far behind him; crystallized in the sound of a body hollowly thudding onto the dirt, dead. He slipped upwards, twisting around the broad stem of the tree like a vine of ivy. His vision was blurry, dotted with spots of black and white. Droplets of dark blood stained the bark.

Reaper solidified onto the big branch where Widowmaker made her sniper’s nest, stumbled onto his hands and knees to ground himself. Claws dug into the wood like a cat that would knead into the blankets. She’d payed him no attention at first, opting to snipe the soldiers who were ordered to chase him. The glow of her helmet’s infra-red visors was ominous under the cover of leaves and darkness.

“You should rest,” she ordered him with a hint of annoyance in her voice when he scrambled to sit upright.

Pressing the heel of his hand against the wound in his abdomen, he settled onto his side and concentrated on evening out his breathing. She shuffled closer to him, propped the stock of her rifle back against her shoulders and dropped her next target. Everything in front of his eyes was swimming; the leaves and branches blending together with the flickering fluorescent light of the venom mine she planted against the stem.

“ _Widow_ —” Her name got cut off by his own exhaustion. Reaper blinked slowly but the world wouldn’t stop spinning. _Fuck_ was the last coherent thought on the forefront of his mind before he blanked out.

There’s an added weight on his back and he groans when consciousness returns to him with a massive headache. He wants to turn around, but something prevents him from moving. Sharp talons dig lines into the slippery bark of the thick branch.

Widowmaker huffs from somewhere above him and it’s only then that he realizes that she’s sitting on top of him. A groan leaves him from the back of his throat and another attempt to move earns him a squeeze from her legs. _She’s straddling him._

“What are you doing?” Exhaustion and irritation color the tone of his voice.

_A click_ ; the barrel of the Widow’s Kiss smoothly retracts into the main body of the rifle and the stock folds back to make the weapon more compact. In one quick movement, she’s lifted one leg above him and ends up sitting next to him on the thick branch. He groans lowly when he bends his wounded elbow, but bandages strain against the flesh; he recognizes the black fabric. Widowmaker tore off a piece of his coat.

She deadpans, “You were shaking so hard you would give away our position.”

Reaper looks up at her but still feels dizzy from exhaustion and deprivation. He places a gauntleted palm against the flat forehead of his mask. All these little particles are still pulling him apart by the seams, stitch for stitch.

“ _Why?_ ” It’s more of a rasp than an actual question.

Tilting her head to the right in something akin to curiosity, akin to _frustration_ judging by the furrow of her brows, Widowmaker cautiously replies, “You were _hurt_. Disintegrating.”

It’s logical, clean-cut like the incision of a scalpel in a skillful hand, but her words get lost in the fog of his mind.

“What do you care?”

_He needs. He simply needs._

Her eyes narrow to slits, a viper’s pair of eyes. It’s a razor-thin line Reaper’s forcing them to skate. He settles upright, his abdomen violently protesting the movement, his arm carelessly thrown over the wound.

“I…” Widowmaker pauses, tries to sneak a peek through the foliage at the ground several feet below; her mouth stuck on the first letter of the next word she was going to say. She shakes her head and replies firmly, “You are my partner. It is not a matter of _caring_.”

While he doesn’t believe her—her body language is way off, _shook_ , Reaper doesn’t pursue the topic any further. There are more pressing matters for him to deal with now.

“They are regrouping,” she informs him then. “You have five minutes to feed and get back. Drop point is Hobe fort. I will provide suppressive fire, if they come back.”

He gives her a sharp nod and mutters his thanks, already feeling himself sinking into an incorporeal state. Slowly slinking down the bark in shadowy tendrils. Something solid and warm in the pit of his stomach that cushions the intensity of his hunger.

Reaper hasn’t felt genuine gratitude in a very, very long time.

.


	6. symbiosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Widowmaker just needs to look at him and she knows he’s pissed off. His body language might suggest otherwise, but that’s the military discipline of a faraway life bleeding through into his straight posture. She isn’t as easily hoodwinked by his straight shoulders and carefully calculated strides. No, there are little automatisms that even his inhuman body—made up from millions and millions of nano particles, can’t control.
> 
> His hands always give him away, anyway.
> 
> She hops off the railing onto the metal axle—the sound of the dull clang is contained by the low-hanging ceiling of the hangar— and calmly walks over to the emergency staircase at the far end of the dark and narrow corridor. Some light manages to trickle through the few transparent plastic plates of the triangular roof and catches onto the ‘W’ emblem attached to her shoulder plating when she climbs down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon-compliant, nsfw, an arrangement of some sorts.

.

Perched on the railing, she calmly observes from the rafters how the Talon operatives formerly stationed in the Egyptian base march down the steps of the evacuation plane, over the asphalt of the landing track into the hangar. Sombra’s kept her up to date on the situation in Giza through an encrypted data channel. Reaper’s leading the procession, effortlessly carrying the burden of his failure on his broad shoulders like he does the sunlight.

Widowmaker just needs to look at him and she knows he’s pissed off. His body language might suggest otherwise, but that’s the military discipline of a faraway life bleeding through into his straight posture. She isn’t as easily hoodwinked by his straight shoulders and carefully calculated strides. _No_ , there are little automatisms that even his inhuman body—made up from millions and millions of nano particles, can’t control.

His hands always give him away, anyway.

She hops off the railing onto the metal axle— _the sound of the dull clang is contained by the low-hanging ceiling of the hangar_ — and calmly walks over to the emergency staircase at the far end of the dark and narrow corridor. Some light manages to trickle through the few transparent plastic plates of the triangular roof and catches onto the ‘W’ emblem attached to her shoulder plating when she climbs down the stairs.

It’s evident in how Reaper angles his head and peers about his surroundings that he’s looking for a glimpse of her. Even the black gauze in the sockets of his bone-white mask can’t conceal the hunger in his eyes, like it has a palpable weight.

Her lips curve into a small smile, sadistic in nature. _They’ll both be preying on some sort of satisfaction today then._ She opens the door that leads to the training facilities outside, subtly making her presence known by standing in the doorway for a moment. Her distorted silhouette drags onto the concrete floor, chiseled out unevenly by the light streaming in.

Once she feels the heat of his stare heavy on her exposed back, she shuts the door behind her in one smooth movement.  

Now Widowmaker just has to wait patiently for him to come find her, fully aware that every second he spends searching for her is one that further fuels his anger.

Reaper should go through a debriefing with her superiors first, detailing how the Giza base has gotten compromised by two former Overwatch members and describing his own failure in killing them. That’ll rub some salt in the raw wounds of his ego.

She imagines the sharp tips of his claws dragging lines into the surface of a conference table or a desk as she traverses the square with training equipment. Handfuls of self-control strenuously clenched in those large fists of his as he tries to contain his temper.

Widowmaker’s already at the entrance of Bloc D when Reaper shoves the door of the hangar open with a loud _bang_.

Regarding him with heavy-lidded eyes from over one shoulder, she taunts him with the ghost of a smile. His hands are balled into fists by his sides, his head bowed forwards; the sunlight reflects mercilessly in the metal bolts of his mask.

Her ponytail sways against her back when she turns away from him to punch in the code. Anticipation and adrenalin coil together in the pit of her stomach. Her chin is held high and proud when the doors mechanically slide open to reveal the receptionist’s desk of the building. She steps inside without as much as another glance at him.

Let him seethe in his anger until it boils over; that’s when she wants him the most.

Patience is a treat they’ve instilled into her since her very inception, so she has no qualms to wait impassively, even for hours if necessary. Sometimes Widowmaker wonders if the serum they regularly inject in her veins doesn’t merely enhance the treats Amélie Lacroix possessed, but those subversive thoughts usually result in massive migraines that threaten to splice her mind apart.

It doesn’t matter. _You don’t want- Reaper spat in vitriol after the first time._ Amélie Lacroix is dead. _You don’t want- He repeated in a growl, an animal manhandled into a corner, when she pressed her cold palms to his bare face._ Widowmaker is not. _You’re not supposed to **want**. _

Sitting on a desk in an empty office of the ICT division, she stares straight ahead with her left forearm propped on her kneecap, her other leg bent over the tabletop. The walls in the cubicle are blank aside from blueprints of infrared homing missiles.

_But I do- she responded dispassionately, poker-faced aside from the cold fire in her eyes; her gaze searching for the dimmed heat in his._

His frantic footfalls echo loudly throughout the hallway, overshadowed periodically by how he slams open the doors to the other rooms. She doesn’t look away from the wall when Reaper opens the door to the office where she’s in, but watches him enter from the corner of her eyes.

“Here you are.” There’s nothing human in his voice.

He’s barely able to maintain his corporeal state, blurring apart at the edges of his body, of the whiptail of his cloak, of his hood. His biceps are bulging under the black straps wrapped around his upper arms, his chest is heaving underneath the heavy leather and the cartridges strapped across. His head is angled towards her, the black gauze taped to the back of his mask making his gaze appear unfathomably deep.

But that’s never been a bother, Reaper doesn’t take his mask off until _after._

Widowmaker swings her legs off the desk, holding onto the tabletop with both hands, absentmindedly watching how his shadow seems to crawl towards the tips of her heels. Her mouth curves into a smirk, she’s amused at how his temper always gets the best of him.

“Are you looking to cool off, _mon chèri?_ ”

Warm, shadowy tendrils slip around her ankles, inch up her calves, her knees, and her upper legs. Reaper meanwhile steps forwards, dissolving into a shroud of thick, black mist, until he’s close enough to encase her completely. She feels his heat cocooning her cold body, as if his fingers are peeling away her suit from her skin along the expanse of her plunging neckline.

There’s no sensation she’s ever felt that’s like this; as if she’s being _razed_ , as if she’s being _flooded_ , subjected to touches skirting the line between tangible and incisive. Between something she should want and something she can’t. Widowmaker gasps when he wraps one arm across her chest, teasing her bottom lip with the dangerously sharp tip of his claw. Tendrils glide over every inch of her bare skin, searing, searching for sensitive spots.

She chuckles when he growls against the shell of her ear. _like an animal manhandled into a corner._ She nicks her lower lip on his claw and tastes metal, tastes blood. Particles float around her, fine as dust, dark as ash. His shadows solidify into a calloused palm against her cunt, into fingertips delving into the meat of her ass, into an abrasive, catlike tongue against her nipples, into teeth biting along the handles of her hips.

Something mouths along the column of her throat. His mask thuds dully against the side of her helmet when he leans his forehead against her. Something sucks a lovebite below her left breast but it feels more like _being eaten_. Her skin breaks under the pressure; her tongue slides over the raw wound on her lip, cleaning away the blood.

Reaper surrounds her. Every little movement she makes is encased by him. He grinds against her clit with the heel of a palm, but at the same time the tip of his tongue traces her outer lips, tastes the slick of her slit. Soon enough hands are brushing up and down her flanks, warming her cool skin with rough, uneven touches.

Widowmaker feels robbed of breath when tendrils are shoved inside of her, stuffing her slowly with an alien girth and texture. From her peripheral, she can see how the expanse of his monstrous face escapes from behind the façade of his mask, from the cover of his hood. Red eyes and open maws are floating around her in stretches of darkness, taunting her with the glimpse of his sharp teeth. She bucks into his scalding touch, wanting more of it, wanting more of _him_.

One strangled sound escapes her when a sandpaper dry tongue flicks against her clit. Distracting her from another thin tendril wrapping around the other ones inside of her, stretching her open even wider. His haggard breathing drives out her thoughts, leaving only the rhythmic thudding of her heartbeat behind between her two ears.

It feels exhilarating to _want_ , to take everything Reaper’s willing to give to her _._

She won’t last much longer than this; going into sensory overload when every touch, every caress, every smack comes at once. There are no words to explain how it feels to be _fucked_ like this, taken by the millions of particles that constitute his entire being, taken by a tongue, a cock, fingers, tendrils all at once, all over.

Reaper sinks a pair of teeth under the collar of her bodysuit into the junction of her neck and shoulder and she’s blitzed into an orgasm. It’s too sudden, too intense, too _much_. Her toes are curling inside her boots, her thighs are quivering, knees knocking together, breath coming to a stuttering halt in the cavern of her mouth.

“ _Allez,_ you can let go of me now,” Widowmaker whispers hoarsely, sunken down on her knees, barely aware of the arm around her chest.

Hesitation dictates his movements as he solidifies entirely and puts space between them. Reaper takes off his mask to reveal a barely human face. There’s no anger, but the crease between his brows and the narrowing of his eyes suggest he’s worried. She wants to scoff, but doesn’t, only focuses on regulating her breathing.

Her expression softens from neutrality into something close to affection. She reaches out to him and cradles his jaw with gentle fingertips. He wrinkles his nose, but he doesn’t pull away, eventually even settles into the cool and comforting touch. _like an animal manhandled into a corner._ It stings to smile with her bruised and bloodied mouth, but the pain’s just an afterthought when the heat still lingers on her **un** dead skin.

.


	7. 5 times Gabriel spoke to Amélie, and one time she replied.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel Reyes looks at Widowmaker for the first time without a mask and expects… violence. 
> 
> But she doesn’t react, merely assesses him and closes the distance between their bodies. Her eyes are unnaturally bright, even in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something short I drabbled on the widowreaper discord some time ago when it was confirmed that Reaper’s part of Talon’s leadership. Put two and two together and you might come to the conclusion that Reaper’s behind Widowmaker’s brainwashing. What a nice what-if to explore really.

1

Gabriel watches her saunter over to them, still holding the bouquet of lilies the presentator gave her after the performance. Her cheeks are rosy and her hair’s down now, done away with the tight dot from earlier. Amélie Lacroix looks beautiful, even slightly out of breath, and after she’s said hello to Gérard in soft-spoken French, she turns to him. And he’s a bit taken aback by how naturally tall and slender she is. Even in her slightly-worn, white ballet slippers, Amélie stands proud, eye-level with his nose.

“Hey,” Gabe greets, holding out his hand. “I was really looking forward to your performance and you  _killed_  it. You were great.” 

2

Reaper towers over her, casting a shadow along the white tiles of the interrogation room. Amélie looks up at him, teary-eyed but resolute, biting her teeth broken in silence. There’s a big bruise blooming purple on her right cheek. He takes a step forwards, the sound of his boots deafening in the small space. 

“God made man in his image,” he mutters dryly, as Amélie cowers, scrambling towards the corner of the room. 

He looks down on her, the light reflecting off his bone-white mask, and continues, “But he created from _nothing_  and I have something–well,  someone to work with. Don’t I? 

3

She’s past the breaking point, halfway between who she was and who they want her to be. 

When Reaper enters the interrogation room, she flinches but doesn’t jolt out of her chair anymore, in anger or in panic. It took him nearly two weeks to accomplish something that’s normally a process of  _months_. Reaper reckons he has seen sides of Amélie Gérard has never considered, never even wanted too. 

He carefully puts the plate down on the table. Her eyes gleam wetly in the fluorescent lights when she looks straight into the sockets of his mask. 

"It’s pretty good,” Reaper says, motioning to the food. “ _Trust me_.” 

4

Before Widowmaker’s brought in for debrief, Reaper takes her aside. Her body doesn’t show any signs of emotional trauma, her face is blank, expressionless aside from the arch of an eyebrow. 

Reaper wonders what she will look like after the biomedical engineers have gotten their grubby hands on her. 

“Welcome home,” he says, a tad too wry, a tad too…  _expressionate;_  and he clenches his hands into fists when he’s realized his mistake, gloves crinkling loudly, claws pricking into the leather.

Widowmaker regards him for a split-second, not knowing what to make of his words, before giving a curt nod in return.

5   

Gabriel Reyes looks at Widowmaker for the first time without a mask and expects… violence. 

But she doesn’t react, merely assesses him and closes the distance between their bodies. Her eyes are unnaturally bright, even in the dark. 

For a brief moment, Gabe considers turning away from her and all this tension and chemistry that’s built up between them. From  _fuck-ups_ to successes with blood and murder and gunpowder in between.  

He thought he helped build a weapon but Widowmaker’s turned out to be so much  _more_. 

“I’m sorry,” Gabe croaks, the apology slipped out in the space between them before he fully knew what he was saying.

\+ 1

Widowmaker laughs in that haughty, chilling way she has and puts her hands on his broad shoulders. As if she couldn’t think of  _one reason_ why she should suddenly start to care.

Her face is dangerously close to his when she replies, “I’m not." 

And a knife between his ribs would’ve been kinder than the searing kiss she gave him.    


End file.
